


The Salt on Her Lips Stings My Wounds

by icannotevenhhh



Category: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - Ransom Riggs
Genre: F/F, MPHFPC Big Bang 2020, Past and Present, Shipwrecks, an underwater kissaroo from me to you :), flashlight fish, post Emma/Abe breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27797527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icannotevenhhh/pseuds/icannotevenhhh
Summary: The wind passed over them both, tousling their hair. The hem of Emma’s nightgown rippled around her legs in time with the waves. She couldn’t find the words to reply, so instead she studied the reflection of the stars on the water. They flickered and bobbed like a painter was furiously dashing them through with strokes of blue before painting them back again. Glow swelling, they swirled around each other in aimless patterns before darting away into the blackness.It dawned on Emma that they weren’t stars. She shot to her feet, Bronwyn stumbling back in surprise.“What are you-”Emma brought a finger to Bronwyn’s lips, offering her a palm. For the first time in a long while, she was smiling. “Come with me and you’ll find out.”
Relationships: Emma Bloom & Bronwyn Bruntley, Emma Bloom/Abraham Portman (past), Emma Bloom/Bronwyn Bruntley
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	The Salt on Her Lips Stings My Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> My piece for the MPHFPC Big Bang 2020 event hosted by sandpiper-ymbryne/actually-jenna on Tumblr!
> 
> You can find the accompanying art here:
> 
> https://the-parentheticals.tumblr.com/post/636170986926014464/emma-had-been-sitting-toes-buried-in-the-sand

Emma had been sitting, toes buried in the sand, when Bronwyn’s voice broke through the roaring in her ears.

“Are you alright?”

The night sky was speckled with glimmering stars, free of the post-reset post-bombing stormclouds that lulled Emma and her housemates to sleep day after day. Twilight ink seeped from the horizon, saturating every color to a silky, deep blue, shot through occasionally by the lighthouse’s sweeping yellow searchlight. Fiery amber eyes darted over the water, scanning the waves for a boat, the sky for a plane, the everything for _anything_. 

Emma was past the point of crying. Her tears had dried a fortnight ago when she received the letter. _His_ letter. The last one he’d ever send. 

_This is why,_ whispered the wind as it wrapped her in a duvet of salt and oil. _This is why he never loved you. Did you believe him, silly girl? Did you feel safe in his arms?_

“Yes,” Emma murmured, an answer to both the wind and her friend. Bronwyn frowned, her brows knitting together. She looked comforting and lovely, like always. Of course she did.

Too bad she wasn’t a boy. Too bad she wasn’t Abe. 

“Are you sure?” Bronwyn took a tentative step closer, palms raised as though calming a frightened animal, her footprints already swept away by the breeze. Emma did not stir, turning back to the horizon. Still no sign of Abe.

Her eyes burned, bloodshot, from the effort of staying awake. She closed them for a moment, relief flooding her senses before they snapped open once more. Dark bags hung beneath them like gallows. Her throat itched painfully as sleep clawed its way into her mouth, curling up on her tongue and making the edges of her vision swim. All she could taste was plaque and bile. 

“...So this is what you’ve been sneaking out to do? Watch for seabirds?”

“Ships.”

“...Ah. That makes sense.”

Bronwyn took another step, then settled into the sand beside her. They sat in silence for a long while, facing the ocean and watching the water inch closer to their feet. Then Bronwyn shifted, her proximity like a cool breeze on a sweltering day, soothing Emma’s nerves. She didn’t comment when Emma’s head fell onto her shoulder.

“...S’a pretty night, isn’t it, Miss Bloom?”

Emma hummed. Her hands felt clammy, the fire in her chest doused and reduced to a pile of soggy, smoldering twigs.

“It’s the same as any other night. I don’t see what makes it so pretty.”

Bronwyn huffed a laugh, and Emma lifted her head to look her in the eye, rage suddenly flaring. “What? Is my suffering funny to you?”

Bronwyn shook her head, a loose curl falling into her eyes. She blew it back. “Well, it’s just...just because it’s the same doesn’t mean it isn’t pretty. I see you every day, but you have never once stopped being lovely.” She paused, flushing as her words caught up to her. “Er, not that I think you’re pretty. Wait, that’s not what I meant- I- I mean-”

“It’s alright,” Emma sniffed, dropping her cheek back down. Because she was weak. Because she was broken and wanted-- _needed_ \--to feel loved. “I know what you meant.”

Bronwyn’s jumper was rough against Emma’s freckled skin, but she didn’t mind. There were things that hurt much worse than the scrape of wool.

One such thing, she knew, was a bullet wound.

* * *

The date was September third, 1940. Thirty-seven years ago.

Emma hadn’t been able to sleep. She lay awake in bed amidst the dust particles and the house’s settling groans, burning holes into the ceiling with her stare. The rain drummed at her window, miniature waterfalls streaming down their usual path.

A cry of anguish shook Emma from her stupor. She sprung to her feet, bursting out the door and into the hall. Her instinct told her to bolt for Horace, his night terrors so frequent and frightful that the Bird appointed someone to check on him each night lest he be caught in the throes of a vision. But the voice came from a room over--Abe’s room. 

When Emma arrived, she was greeted with the sight of him upright in bed, stiff as a board, blankets thrown to the floor in a frenzy. She didn’t hesitate to go to his side.

Abe clawed for her hand, trembling, and brought it flush against his shoulder. Lamplight bathed his bedroom in orange, the shadows outlining his face stark and deep, like something out of Enoch’s comic books. She brought a hand to cup his cheek. 

“What’s wrong?” Abe merely shook his head, pressing her palm down harder. 

“Bad...dream.”

“A nightmare?”

Abe nodded. Emma’s heart squeezed in sympathy. 

“Can you tell me what about?” She whispered, her voice hardly a breath. Abe swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

Even when he was shaking, dark curls stuck to his forehead with sweat, he was beautiful. Sunkissed skin dappled with freckles brushed against her own as her eyes were captured by his caramel gaze. Abe pursed his lips, shifting, the bed frame creaking under his weight.

“Abe,” Emma said gently, coaxing the words from his lips. 

“...When I was...running, yes? From the home…”

“When you came to England?”

Abe nodded, his eyes growing glassy. “I was...attacked. Was shot.”

Emma’s stomach sank like a bag of rocks. “And so that’s what you…”

“Yes.” 

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment it was as though he was in another world. Pain shot up Emma’s arm as his grip tightened. She ignored it.

“They should not have done that. I was...small. A child.” His fingernails dug into her skin. “Those… _monsters._ ”

“A-Abe, dear, you’re- o-ow-”

Abe snapped to attention, eyes widening as he let go of Emma’s hand. “Sorry! Sorry...Did not mean to.”

Emma shook her head and drew him into a tight hug. She didn’t care about the crescents he’d left behind. She didn’t care about his past, his scars, or his anger. She loved him no matter what. As his arms wrapped around her, her eyes slid closed, then snapped open again to the waves and beach and Bronwyn.

* * *

A strong arm hooked around Emma’s shoulders, pulling her close.

Maybe she should have cared more.

“Let’s get you back inside, Miss Bloom. You must be freezing out here in your bedclothes.”

Bronwyn began to lift her to her feet, but Emma stiffened, shaking her head and digging her toes into the sand to anchor herself.

“No. I don’t want to go back to that wretched place.”

“But Miss Peregrine-”

“Miss Peregrine can choke on a bone for all I care. I want to be left alone.”

“But you-”

“Bronwyn!”

“Emma!” 

Emma started in surprise at the use of her first name and peered up at Bronwyn, who now stood over her with her hands on her hips.

“I am _not_ about to let you freeze to death out here just because you’re too caught up in your own head to care! Because birds above, Emma, it’s killing me to see you do this to yourself!”

Stunned into silence, Emma watched as tears welled in Bronwyn’s eyes.

“...I won’t freeze to death.” Emma exhaled into her palms, a puff of fire licking the surface of her skin. “See?”

“That’s not-!” Bronwyn said, clapping a hand over her mouth to keep from raising her voice. “...that’s not the point, and we both know it. Please, Emma.”

The wind passed over them both, tousling their hair. The hem of Emma’s nightgown rippled around her legs in time with the waves. She couldn’t find the words to reply, so instead she studied the reflection of the stars on the water. They flickered and bobbed like a painter was furiously dashing them through with strokes of blue before painting them back again. Glow swelling, they swirled around each other in aimless patterns before darting away into the blackness.

It dawned on Emma that they weren’t stars. She shot to her feet, Bronwyn stumbling back in surprise. 

“What are you-”

Emma brought a finger to Bronwyn’s lips, offering her a palm. For the first time in a long while, she was smiling. “Come with me and you’ll find out.”

* * *

The lighthouse towered over the girls’ boat, the shore eclipsed by the massive cliffs ringing Cairnholm’s jagged edge. Bronwyn rubbed her hands, sore from rowing, and glanced nervously across the boat to Emma. “Are you sure you know where we’re going? Seems to me like we’re floating in the middle of empty water.”

“Trust me, I’ve done this loads of times.” Emma nudged Bronwyn’s leg with her foot, shooting her a lopsided smile. “Sorry your trousers got all soaked from the wade out to the boat.” She tossed the anchor overboard with a splash. “I would have told you to change if I was thinking straight.”

Bronwyn shrugged in reply. “S’alright. I can manage a little water if it means making you feel better.”

Rolling her eyes, Emma reached up to undo the ribbon holding her braid, sending her locks tumbling down over her shoulders. “You’re so cheesy.” She shifted forward, moving step by step to Bronwyn’s bench to avoid rocking the boat. When she settled down, their knees knocked together. “Mind tying up my hair? You always do it much tighter than me.”

“Of course.”

Emma turned away, closing her eyes as Bronwyn brushed her fingers through her hair, drawing it back into a ponytail that tugged gently at her scalp. Her touch was delicate in spite of her strength--she had plenty of practice doing plaits and buns on Claire. “Is that too tight?”

Emma shook her head, feeling her hair swish from side to side, brushing against her neck. She turned back to Bronwyn with a smile. “No, it’s alright. Thank you. I forgot how good you were with hair.” 

“Because I’ve got hardly any of it to work with?” Bronwyn chuckled. “The Bird sometimes hints she’d like me to grow it out, you know. As if I even can.”

“Does she _really?_ Lord, keep it short. I think it’s very becoming of you.”

“You sound like Horace.”

“You _act_ like Horace.”

Bronwyn gasped, reeling away in mock surprise. “I do not! I just have to be gentle doing hair because Claire’s backmouth gets bitey!”

“Either way.”

They rocked slightly as Emma stood, brushing off her skirt and turning to the boat’s edge. When she moved to step into the water, a hand shot out to grab her arm.

“What are you doing?”

Emma grinned. “Look down.”

Bronwyn hesitantly did as told. The beam of the lighthouse passed through the water, outlining a dark shape beneath them. Emma hopped over the edge, the soles of her feet connecting with a metallic _clang_ and sending ripples over the surface. The lower half of her nightgown darkened from baby blue to heavy, saturated navy. “It’s a shipwreck. Which is nifty and all, but the _really_ swell bit is what’s inside.”

“You want me to swim?”

“Why else would I bring snorkel masks, silly goose?”

A flash of uncharacteristic diffidence painted Bronwyn’s features. “I’m not sure I’ll be a strong enough swimmer to get us out if something happens.”

“You’re a strong enough _everything_. Now get in before I _pull_ you in!”

After a moment, Bronwyn grinned. “Alright, alright, I’m coming. You’re doing my laundry after all this, though.”

“I thought you said you could handle a little water?”

“If a boatful is a little to you, I’d hate to see a lot.”

Emma laughed. “Hush, you. You’re a worse complainer than Enoch.”

The water was calm but cold, and the beam of the lighthouse washed over them every few steps. Eventually Emma stopped at a large, doorlike hole. She smiled, glancing over her shoulder to address Bronwyn. “Put on your mask.” And then she stepped off the ledge, plunging into the water. 

The cold surrounded Emma, the hair on her arms standing on end as she sunk deeper and deeper; down, down, down through the darkness. She could make out familiar shapes, suspended as though floating in space: debris, containers, a lone chain that flowed like the body of a great snake. For a moment she let herself float, the gentle current holding her aloft, but the calm was broken by Bronwyn’s hulking form crashing down and sending sprays of bubbles towards the sky. She looked around, face softening as she met Emma’s eye, and righted herself, kicking her legs every few seconds to keep from sinking.

Emma pointed to a ladder dripping with algae, chains of green wafting off it like ribbons on a maypole. Bronwyn’s eyes widened, bewildered, and she pointed down into the murkiness as if to ask _down there? Really?_

Emma nodded in reply, and she could just barely make out Bronwyn’s anxious swallow through the water. Her gut twisted--she didn’t want her to be frightened. It looked all wrong on her face, blotting out her usual brave grin with a furrowed brow and a clenched jaw, like spilled ink on a fancy tablecloth.

Emma took her hand and laced their fingers together with a reassuring squeeze. 

Kicking her legs, she swam to the closest rung she could reach and began to climb down, toting Bronwyn behind her. The water grew thicker as they descended. Darker too--from deep indigo to midnight blue to the impenetrable black of the void. When Emma found she couldn’t tell if her eyes were closed or open, the ladder turned from metal to wood and the sun began to beat against her back. 

* * *

The date was September third, 1940. Fifty years ago.

“Take my hand, Olive!” 

The girl shook her head, clinging tightly to her branch with bleached knuckles. It groaned and shuddered, dangerously close to snapping. The children gathered below murmured and stared, faces white with worry. “I can’t let go, Emma! I’ll fly away!”

“I need you to trust me!”

Olive met Emma’s gaze, her eyes blown wide and struck through with fear, tears welling on her lashes. She shook her head harder, sending her crown tumbling to the ground. The branch cracked. Olive shrieked in surprise.

“Careful, Emma!”

“Don’t let her float away!”

“Oh, I can’t watch-”

The wind picked up, whipping Emma’s hair around her face as she set her jaw, steeling herself for the worst. “Hold the ladder still, Wynnie!” she barked, clearing her mind and stepping into the tree without a second thought. 

Her foothold was barely the thickness of her arm, yet she held fast. Step by step, she inched her way over to Olive. The branch bowed under her weight. She ignored it, focusing on her goal.

_Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down._

One of her feet slipped, leaving her dangling in midair for a breathtaking moment before she found her balance again. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, and she took a few seconds to regain her nerve. 

Then Olive’s branch snapped.

The girl shrieked in terror, scrabbling for something else to grab. Shouts filled the air, but all Emma could hear was the blood roaring in her ears. Time slowed. Emma stared Olive’s death in the face. And, acting on impulse, she jumped.

_Don’t look down._

Emma’s body slammed into Olive’s with a thud, arms wrapping around her in a bear hug. Olive threw herself at Emma and clung to her neck, burying her tearstained face into her dress. Slowly but surely, the pair began to float to the ground. 

“You’re going to be okay, Olive. Just hold on.”

The others crowded around them as they landed, babbling and shouting over each other with worry. Bronwyn raised her hands, parting through them. 

“Everyone, head inside!” Bronwyn barked, jaw set and brow furrowed. “Give them some space! You can fawn over them when they’re ready!” It was rare to see her like this, but Emma was grateful. She felt just as shaken as Olive.

Once they were left alone outside, Emma passed Olive to Bronwyn. She took a deep breath, relieved to feel the grass at her feet. “I can’t thank you enough, Wyn.”

“Whatever for?” Bronwyn shifted, settling Olive into the groove of her hip. Behind them, the garden door swung shut. Emma tried to ignore it. “I just did what I could to help. I didn’t want you to have to handle that alone.”

“I had everything under control.”

“Yet you look like you’re about to collapse. I promise you, Miss Bloom, I will always look out for you.”

Emma opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a strong grip on her shoulder. Abe spun her away from Bronwyn and into his arms, holding her tight. 

“I tell you be careful. You must be careful, yes?”

Emma melted into his embrace, her eyes fluttering closed. “I know. I’m so sorry I worried you, love.”

“Don’t again.”

“I’ll try not to,” Emma murmured with a smile, her senses flooded with rough fabric and bergamot cologne. When she opened her eyes to pull away, she could see Bronwyn and Olive heading inside over Abe’s shoulder.

* * *

The floor of the boat sent shocks of cold through Emma’s soles as she hopped from the ladder. With her eyes finally adjusted to the dark, she could see how red Bronwyn’s face had turned. 

Emma reached into the darkness, her hand closing around the plastic tube she knew would be there. After blowing out its invading water, she took a welcome gulp of air and passed it along to Bronwyn. Her strangled flush dissipated, and she flashed Emma a thumbs-up.

They kept going. Sometime along the way, Bronwyn took Emma’s hand.

Emma wondered what it must feel like to experience the shipwreck for the first time. Of course, it hadn’t _always_ been part of her life--she had been new to the loop once, a long time ago--but familiarity had dampened the wonder of the experience. However, with Bronwyn’s fingers entwined with hers… it was almost like everything was new again.

Emma stopped. Here the water was thickest, weighing them down like layers of soggy woolen blankets; slowing their movements and chilling them to the bone. She felt Bronwyn press closer, hand slipping from her own to wrap protectively around her waist. Emma fought a smile as she took a long, deep breath and passed Bronwyn the tube, freeing her hands to work their magic.

She balled them into tight fists, stretching her arms out before unfurling them again. They glowed bright fluorescent blue, outlining Bronwyn’s look of confusion. Emma leaned into her. _Be patient,_ she tried to convey with a glance. _They’ll be here soon._

And then they were.

A lone fish began to glow, a beacon of light slicing through the water as it swam to them. It floated a single lazy circle around Emma’s hands before darting off, leaving the water still and lifeless as if it never existed. Then, in an instant, an entire school of fish appeared, flickering and flitting about like the flames of a million candles.

Emma kicked her legs, wrapping an arm--now cooled--around Bronwyn’s neck and twirling them in a circle, keeping her other arm extended. Her palm trailed a ribbon of blue light in its wake, a comet through the night sky. The fish followed its lead, turning the water around them into a planetarium.

Emma ignored the spectacle. She’d seen it thousands of times, thousands of lonely nights spent with nothing but the salt on her lips for company. What truly took her breath away was the wonder on Bronwyn’s face.

Her brown eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated to a near total eclipse. Her chest was still with held breath, tube forgotten and left to float alone. Blue and yellow light softened her edges as her hair floated about her face, giving her an angelic, ethereal glow.

Bronwyn tore her gaze from the fish to meet Emma’s. Only a fool would mistake the look on her face as anything less than moonstruck. Their bodies pulled together like magnets, and Bronwyn wrapped her arms tighter around Emma’s waist. Emma hooked her legs around her hips, nightgown flowing through the water like curtains in the breeze. Her heart was pounding-- _be still, my beating heart_ \--and she brought up a hand to cup Bronwyn’s cheek.

And then their lips met, the light of the fish bursting like fireworks behind Emma’s eyes.

Bronwyn held her gently as they twirled, slowly floating higher, higher, and higher still. The school followed suit, swirling around them. Even with her eyes closed Emma could feel their glow, streaky and regular like the lights of a carousel. Despite the frigid water, warmth flooded through Emma’s body. She was floating on air.

Then, slowly but surely, the fish began to wink out. One by one they disappeared until Emma and Bronwyn were left alone in the dark. Alone in the water. Alone in the universe. It was them, only them, and that’s all that mattered.

And then Emma’s head bonked against the ceiling of the wreck and she jerked away in pain.

* * *

“Are you _sure_ you’re alright?” Bronwyn asked for the hundredth time. Emma smiled in reply, leaning over the edge of the rowboat to wring out her hair. 

“I’m fine. It was just a little bump, that’s all.” 

“But you-” 

“But nothing, Wynnie! It wasn’t your fault, you don’t have to try and apologise or make it better.” Emma chuckled gently, righting herself and shaking the excess saltwater from her hands. “We were both...distracted. That’s all. No plasters or pain tablets necessary. I’m all good.” 

Bronwyn frowned, glancing over Emma tentatively. “...If you say so. I just- you’re _positive_  
you aren’t concussed?” 

“Double positive.” 

“Okay.” Bronwyn took a deep breath. “Okay. Right, you’re- you’re fine.” 

“I’m fine,” Emma echoed, reaching over to take Bronwyn’s hand. “But enough about me. How  
are you?” 

“M-Me?” 

“Yes, _you,_ silly.” 

Bronwyn swallowed. “Um. I’m…” she paused a moment, looking down at her hand in Emma’s as she searched for the right words. “...Good. I think.” 

Emma looked at her expectantly, nodding for her to continue. Bronwyn shrugged. 

“That’s it. Good. And...a little worried?” 

“Worried? Why?” 

“Because, I’m not…” Bronwyn gestured vaguely out to the horizon. “You know.” 

Emma frowned. Suddenly her hands felt very clammy. “Ah. I...I see.” 

And it was true, she wasn’t. She wasn’t a boy. She wasn’t Abe. She could never _be_ Abe. Abe was...well. 

* * *

The date was September third, 1940. Ten years ago. 

Emma peeked into Miss Peregrine’s study through a crack in the door, breath held with 

Abe was sat down, arms crossed over his chest with a scowl. 

“This is- bad. No, no; wrong word: this is stupid.” 

Miss Peregrine paused in her furied pacing, whirling around to face him. “Stupid? No, Mr. Portman, what is _’stupid’_ is how you tried to leave the loop without my knowledge. Or anyone else’s for that matter! We have managed to escape the wights’ perception for over half a century now, and we did _not_ accomplish that by making rash decisions based on a half-formed notion of duty!” 

Emma had never seen her this upset. It reminded her of the Bird’s namesake: steely eyes locked in place, talons raised, feathers ruffled and beak open wide with a cry of anguish. Despite this, she held herself straight as a pole, voice falling just short of yelling. 

“I could not tell!” Abe sat up in his chair, blazing with passion. “I could not put home in danger again. Secrets safe. Telling not.” 

“Did you even have a plan for what would happen when you arrived at the mainland? What then? Would you have found a cozy little London flat to call your own? Or perhaps maybe a countryside cottage would suffice? Because I regret to inform you that England is in the process of being smashed to the ground with bombs!” 

“I KNOW!” Abe shouted in reply, jumping to his feet. “I know the bombs! I know the murder and the destroy. I know all, because I live through all!” He towered over the ymbryne by at least a foot and a half, but she did not falter, remaining steadfast before him. After a moment of tense silence, Abe wilted. “...I know, and...I leave to make better.” 

Miss Peregrine took a deep breath, calming herself. “I am trying my hardest to be civil and understanding, Mr. Portman, I truly am. But I don’t want to see one of my children be hurt by all this nasty fighting. Not again.” 

Emma blanched, remembering the photo of little Marcie at the bus stop--the one Miss Peregrine had tried to hide. 

Abe clenched his fists by his sides, turning away. Emma couldn’t see his face, but his voice quivered with tears. “I will not hurt. Not before _they_ hurt first.” 

“What’s going on?” 

Emma startled, gasping. Her head snapped down to see Claire tugging at her skirt, eyes wide and brows drawn together. 

“It’s nothing, dear. Go back to bed.” 

“But I heard Abe and-” 

“Bed, Claire.” Emma reached down and scooped the girl into her arms. Claire clung tight to Emma’s nightgown. Feeling the girl’s little fingers grasp at her collar struck a chord within her. Claire was so fragile, so innocent, so small. A particularly powerful wind would blow and she’d stumble into the dirt, ruining her curls and the pink frilly dress she so adored. 

War would destroy her. 

The girls were both silent as Emma padded upstairs. Her mind went blank as soon as she reached the landing, traversing the path to Claire’s room on muscle memory alone. Through the floor, Abe and Miss Peregrine’s voices rose and fell like angry waves on a cliffside. 

“Emma?” Claire asked quietly, pulling her blankets up to her nose. 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Why are they fighting?” 

Emma bought herself time by tucking in Claire’s duvet, searching for the best way to turn harsh  
reality into something that didn’t make bile rise to her throat. 

“...Abe got into some trouble with one of villagefolk. The Bird’s a bit cross.” 

“He’s not leaving, is he?” 

Emma hesitated. Claire’s eyes shone. 

“Is he?” 

“...No. Abe isn’t leaving anytime soon.”

With a nod, Claire settled into her pillows and yawned. Emma leaned down to give her a parting hug--a bit too tight and a bit too long, but neither of them cared--then brushed her bangs aside to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Sleep tight, dear.”

“Do you mind leaving the door open a crack?” Claire asked, sitting up slightly to watch Emma leave. “In case I need you again?”

“Of course.” Emma left the door ajar, making sure a steady stream of light leaked in from the hall before heading back downstairs.

Every creak of the stairs made her jolt, every crash of thunder like a bomb on the rooftop. Her nerves were shot to hell by the time she was back where she started, peeking into the study.

Miss Peregrine had gathered Abe into a tight hug, and they were speaking too low for Emma to hear. Abe caught her gaze over the Bird’s shoulder, startling her into holding her breath.

Then he looked away.

* * *

Bronwyn was strong. Emma knew it as well as she knew her own fire. 

Of course, Abe had been strong too. He would chase a grinning Emma through the halls and throw her over his shoulder, both of them laughing without a care in the world. He’d challenge Victor to an arm wrestle and shrug off his loss with a cheerful smile, joking about how he’d try again tomorrow. 

But he hadn’t been strong enough to stay. Someone else had.

Emma squeezed Bronwyn’s hand in her own. 

“Like you said. You aren’t Abe, Wynnie.”

Bronwyn sighed, running her fingers through her dripping hair. “Figured as much. So this was just...a flight of fancy, right? You didn’t really mean it?” She began to shrink away, but Emma put out an arm to stop her.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you-”

Before Bronwyn could finish, Emma grabbed her face and kissed her again, smiling gently at the taste of saltwater.

When they parted, Emma couldn’t help but snort at the dumbstruck look on Bronwyn’s face. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Hm? Oh! R-Right, right.” Bronwyn flushed, averting her gaze. “Sorry. Just a little...up in my own head.”

“Well, get down from there so you can kiss me again.”

Bronwyn nodded, stooping down with a dopey smile--but paused, their lips a hair width apart. 

“Do you love me?” She whispered. 

“Not yet,” Emma replied, her voice hardly a breath. “But I want to.”

“And I’m not just a placeholder for him?”

“No,” Emma said firmly, wrapping her arms around Bronwyn’s neck and pressing their foreheads together. “You’re so much more.” 

“Okay. I believe you.” Bronwyn heaved a relieved sigh, pulling Emma closer. “...Plus I’m far too cold to push you away right now.”

Emma laughed, clambering into Bronwyn’s lap and hugging her tight, burying her face into her shoulder. “Better?” she asked, voice muffled by fabric.

Bronwyn gave Emma a squeeze. And finally, after all her heartache and confusion and rage and misery and grief and nights spent crying over crumpled envelopes and days spent locked in her room and time spent wishing, hoping for someone to come and save her...

Emma felt whole.

“Better.”


End file.
